haiku//december
haikus entitled “advent” are inspired by Scott the Painter’s book, Honest Advent
one (based on the image, Mary Consoles Eve)
(mary, to eve)
the mistake is not
your whole story. brave woman
how you paved the way
how you showed us to
grieve. mother of the murdered one,
will you walk with me?
(eve, to mary)
the wilderness is
not your home but the world
growing in your womb.
three (enough)
as if i am just
waking up, or taking my
very first breath, or
bursting through the lid
of a deep lake, and all I’ve
done is inhale and
exhale again. the
the truth is you love me, just for
waiting here, breathing. four (advent—unease)
i pull on the chains
of my heart, entangled, taut,
like old necklaces
in the bottom of
a jewelry box. so much
striving, so little
to show for it. and
yet, in the unease, you shut
the lid of the box
and hold my hands still,
place them on my knees as they
fall gently open. five (advent—alpha)
is it, perhaps, that
after all this, the one who
was waiting was you? six (advent—Immanuel)
there you are in
my beating heart and breathing–
lavishing all your
presence on me in
the wind of my chest, a seed
buried deep in me
your roots braided with
my fibers and threads, soft and
woven together. eight (after Rilke’s Book of Hours, II, 34)
you rest, then travel
in the quiet things of here
and now, tucked inside
the barn swallow’s wing,
between the tendrils of fog,
bundled in the snow
piled on the high
branches of the douglas fir.
in this parched city,
of endless clanging,
I’m searching for you where the
silence is singing. nine
we wither up, pruned
and knowledgeable, in love
with answers and facts.
but what about the
winter snow that sings of snow
before it arrives?
what about the way
we tilt our eyes to the source,
full of deep wonder?
what about how we
grow quiet, so alive with
this resurrection? eleven
but forget all that–
the anxieties that churn
in the depths of you
the needy weight of
perfection, hectic visions
of nightmares and dreams,
too. forget all that–
it’s nothing compared to what
I’m going to do! twelve (advent—sacred)
you meet me in all
the unexpected places;
old gymnasiums,
long dark highways, and
the grocery store bread aisle.
you break the confines
of my assumptions
and sit on the foot of my
bed, just listening. thirteen (advent—counselor)
what might it be like
to sit across from you, laid
bare, and still be loved? fifteen (advent—might)
perhaps the strength rests
in the feet of the child
in the brush of the
artist, in the mess
of the quiet things, like wind
or snow, or music.
perhaps the might comes
in the walking through, towards the
hushed togetherness. sixteen
hold my face in your
hands and tilt my chin up to
you–bright evening star. seventeen (advent—peace)
the president has
said the wrong thing again and
hatred fills the streets
with threats of violence
and fear is in the water.
boys are killed because
of their genetics
and the planet is too warm.
not to mention those
ordinary woes
like taxes, panic attacks,
and grocery shopping.
what I’m asking is,
are you still coming? will I
see you through the smog? eighteen (advent—with)
and in the middle
of all the dying things, you
reach up, tiny shoot.
your sapling sized
life a new branch from the old
stump. a miracle. nineteen (advent—room)
it never looks like
quite how we imagine it–
unexpectation
propelling us now
farther, deeper in to the
wilderness of trust. twenty
a thrill of hope in
pockets and softly lit rooms
and ice cream parlours
in the middle of
winter. and suddenly the
hate is dimmer now,
silent, almost. and
just for the briefest moment, the
story is enough. twenty-two
I don’t feel ready
to meet you–despite my best
efforts. in the noise
of preparation
I can’t seem to hear you. may
I see you where you
are, which is in the
small, surprising things, hidden
where I stopped looking. twenty-three (magi)
rain almost-turned snow
dances on the roof above
me, blocking the moon
and the stars, too. when
the clouds clear, will I see them
once again? will I
remember to look
for the burning? and will I
follow, unafraid? twenty-four (on the eve)
and maybe it’s that
you want me to grow so you’re
taking your time? twenty-five (advent—fear)
inside the lion
there is an infant– a choice
to enter this war
not with a battle cry
but with a hushed whisper
and a lullaby. twenty-six (after Annie Dillard)
I want to see your
headlights trace a pattern on
my wall–I want it
to be you who is
coming. and so you’ve come. now,
it is you who is
waiting for me to
lift my head up and see you
standing at the door. twenty-seven (after Isaiah 40, pt 1)
the footnote says that
“warfare” in this case can mean
“hardship.” yes. and I say
“will I feel it when
you lift me up on eagle’s
wings?” the prophet says,
(tenderly, I think)
the way of the lord is paved
in the wilderness. twenty-eight (Isaiah 40, pt. 2)
twenty-eight (isaiah 40, pt 2)
will I hear it when
the mountains fall? will I look
up and run, headlong
into the quaking?
will I set down, finally,
these heavy worries
and let myself be
moved? and if I lose my way,
will you watch for me? thirty
the snow holds us in
as we burrow under quilts
and wait for the spring,
wishing that when we
wake from this hibernation,
when the ice slips
from the rooftops and
the grass stretches her arms,
all will be made new
over and over
again the way it always
is in the springtime.thirty-one (Isaiah 45)
and in the darkness
a light shines like a whisper–
stars in the expanse
of the great river,
the sky, heralds of good news.
you have gone before,
you have brought near
the unreachable places,
you call me by name
and say “come, walk through
the open door with me as
I make all things new.” 